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Sam has lost a lot of people in his life.
Almost all of them, in fact. Almost every single person, in every single facet of his life, has died or left him in some shape or form. It’s one of those things he keeps expecting to get used to, but never does. It’s not something you can get used to, he thinks. Every time, every person, hurt as much as the first, even when, in the rare occurrences, he had the chance to bring them back. It’s a pain that doesn’t go away, that doesn’t lessen, doesn’t subside.
Losing Dean is a whole ‘nother level. Losing Dean, losing him for good this time… it’s unimaginable. Every morning Sam wakes up thinking this was all just a nightmare, some horrible dream, because it can’t be real. Dean doesn’t die. Sam doesn’t exist without Dean, not really. And he doesn’t. Living without your soulmate isn’t living, isn’t even existing.
It’s driving down lonely stretches of road and crying because you’re in the driver’s seat. It’s being alone every second of every day, and, when having the chance to be around another person, dreading it because you don’t know if you can fake it, fake being alive. It’s not knowing if you can fake the composure that will avoid those pitying looks, the “I’m sorry for your loss” bids that feel empty, as if this is something Sam can recover from. As if this is something Sam can live through.
At night, Sam pleads in the darkness to Dean, hoping he can hear him.
“Please,” he whispers, pain contouring the word and twisting his throat tight. “Please Dean. Just let me go. Tell me it’s okay for me to go. I can’t do this anymore.” In the mornings he looks at the weapons, looks at the shiny steel and silver of the blades and the barrels of the guns and thinks how easy it would be, just to end it. Just to go be with his brother and be happy again, be done with all this pain.
But he promised Dean. Sam told Dean it was okay, that he could go, and in those words was the silent promise that he would keep going, that he wouldn’t give up.
At night, Sam pleads for a sign it’s okay to let go.
That sign never comes.
________
After a hunt goes sideways in Omaha, Sam is shakily stitching himself up in a motel room outside of Ashland. His fingers keep slipping in the slick of the blood and Sam has the foggy thought that maybe this is hospital bad, that maybe he has lost too much blood. He has been skating on the edge of dangerous for months now, ten to be exactly, ever since the light dimmed from his life in that old barn in Ohio and this, well. If this too much blood, if he doesn’t make it, then that’s okay. That’s okay.
“Sam.”
In his sluggishness, Sam still jumps at that voice behind him, brain scrambling to catch up. His heart clinches when he places the voice, lips slowly upturning in a smile. “Jack?”
“Sam, you’re hurt,” Jack says, coming into view, brows furrowed as he takes in the damage. Miracle whines at the foot of the bed, as Jack surveys the torn up leg, the large gash spanning Sam’s chest, and the cut that meanders its way down his entire right arm, from clavicle to fingertip.
“You’re here,” Sam rasps, unable to take his eyes off them even as he struggles to keep them open. “You, you-”
Jack frowns, running his arm in the air over Sam’s body. Sam gasps, the pain of the wounds immediately ceasing as Jack heals him with the slight of his hand.
“Thanks,” Sam mumbles, sitting up and running his hand over the now healed skin. Watching as Jack sits down, he notes how the concern doesn’t leave the boy’s face. “How… what are you doing here, Jack?”
“I planned to visit,” Jack says, back ramrod straight as he stares at the wall across the room. “I’ve been surveying the Earth before I shut everything down.”
“Shut everything down?”
“The borders,” Jack explains, turning to Sam. “The realms. I have to prevent what happened with Billie from happening again. I’m closing Heaven and Hell. They will be a one way road now.”
It’s the natural order, but Sam’s heart sinks a bit at the declaration. “No more bringing people back.”
“It was too much power for Death to have. For demons to have,” Jack continues. “For angels.”
“No, yeah,” Sam clears his throat. “You’re right.” Jack nods, apparently satisfied. He glances around the room, taking in the empty bottles of alcohol and rags soaked in blood.
“You’re not doing well,” Jack observes, not unkindly.
“No,” Sam laughs humorously. “I’m not.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.” Sam meets Jack’s eyes and finds them full of sorrow and nods, glancing away as his eyes fill with tears.
“Yeah.”
“You need to be more careful,” Jack says.
Sam snorts, shaking his head, “What’s the point?”
Jack draws his eyebrows together, tilting his head. “Living.”
“This isn’t. I’m not. I’m not living, Jack,” Sam snaps, instantly feeling bad for lashing out at the boy he has always considered a son. “I’m sorry, I just. This is the best I can do right now.”
Jack studies him, eventually nodding. “Dean asked that I check on you.”
Sam’s eyes snap to his. “Dean? You’ve seen Dean?”
“I have,” Jack confirms, placing his hand on Sam’s. “He told me to remind you that you promised him.” Sam sucks in a breath, tears instantly constricting his throat.
“Tell him I love him,” he whispers, fingers wiping at his eyes. “Fuck, Jack, tell him I miss him.”
Jack stares at him for a long moment, seemingly considering something before saying, “I will. I have to go now, Sam. I won’t be back.”
Sam wants to tell him not to go, not to leave him alone down here in this world, but instead he nods, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around him. He lets out a shaky breath and says simply, “Thank you."
________
Sam doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he wakes up the next morning.
What he’s not expecting is Jack again, standing at the foot of the bed, petting Miracle.
“Jack?” Sam rasps, voice sleep thick, as he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes against the morning light. “What are you doing here?”
Jack stops petting Miracle and stands up straight, greeting Sam with a wide grin. “Hi, Sam.”
“Hi?” he watches as Jack walks around the bed and pulls up a chair. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be back?”
“I did,” Jack acknowledges, pursing his lips a bit. “But I was thinking. After all you have done for me, I wanted to repay you.”
“Repay me? Jack, you don’t have to repay me for anything. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
“You did so much, Sam. More than you had to. More than anyone else would have,” Jack continues, gazing at Sam with a look so earnest he has to glance away.
“And you saved the world,” Sam smiles warmly, pride welling up in his chest at the thought. “I’d say we’re more than even.”
“Still, I’d like to,” Jack insists, leaning forward in his chair. “I don’t have much time.”
“Okay,” Sam begins slowly. “Jack-“
“I shouldn’t be doing this, but. I want to. This is the only time, I can, though, Sam. The only time.”
“Jack-“
“Goodbye, Sam. Thanks for everything,” Jack smiles, disappearing before Sam can say anything. He stares at the chair where Jack had sat, mouth agape, thoroughly shocked and confused. Miracle yips excitedly, jumping off the bed.
Tearing his eyes away from where Jack had been sitting, Sam says, “Hey, buddy, I-”
He cuts off abruptly when he sees the man standing on the other side of the bed. Dressed in a black t-shirt with a red plaid flannel stretched across broad shoulders and unmistakable bowed legs clad in denim, there stands Dean, grinning down at him from feet away. His skin is tanned and healthy, not pale and ashen like it had been in that old barn, and his eyes dance with light.
“Hey, Sammy,” he says, like it’s nothing, like he’s not everything Sam has been wishing and praying for the last few months in one person. Sam gapes at him, frozen, tears beginning to slip down his face because this can’t be real. It can’t be. Maybe it really was too much blood, maybe he’s bleeding out in that shitty motel room in rural Nebraska and he’s slipping into some hypovolemic pipe dream of the only thing that could make his life worth living again.
“Dean?” he chokes, barely audible, feeling his body shaking into full out convulsions. Dean nods, stepping towards him and Sam’s entire world has narrowed down to his brother before him, as it always had, the walls and the floor falling away until all there is is Dean, stepping toward him like he’s actual here, like Sam hasn’t just lost his mind.
Sam’s body moves by its own accord, a mess of limbs ambling and tripping out of the bed and launching themselves at Dean, wrapping himself so tightly around him the lines between them become impossible to decipher. Sam isn’t sure he’s even keeping a firm grip on reality, legs colt-weak and maybe not even on the ground, but Dean has never let Sam fall before and keeps him upright, strong arms holding him close and safe.
“Shhhh, it’s okay,” Dean sooths, and it’s then that Sam realizes he’s crying, really crying, loud wails that draw out so long they fade into silence. Sam muffles them in Dean’s neck, burying his face into the skin until he almost can’t breathe, but it’s warm and he can feel Dean’s heartbeat there, strong and sure.
“Dean,” he mumbles, absolutely wrecked. His brother is rubbing circles on his back, running his fingers through his hair, both calming habits from when they were kids that make Sam want to collapse all over again. Dean is here. His brother is here.
Sam isn’t sure how long his brother holds him, but eventually the air returns to Sam’s lungs and Dean lowers them to the bedside, Sam barely upright and leaning heavily on his brother.
“You’re back,” he says at last when he can speak again, his voice small and childlike. Dean nods, chin resting atop his head.
“Jack’s one last gift to mankind,” Dean jokes, though Sam is keen to agree with him.
“Never leave me again,” Sam hisses, sniffing as he pushes his way upright. “Jesus, Dean. I couldn’t-”
“I know,” Dean says softly, looking down at his hands. “Jack told me you weren’t doing well. Said it’s why he decided to bring me back.”
“I guess you have me being a fucking mess to thank for you being able to eat chimichangas again,” Sam jokes, though it falls flat on his tongue. No joke about Dean having been dead will ever be funny to Sam.
“You kidding me? You think Heaven wasn’t full to the brim with chimichangas? You’re crazy, man,” Dean shakes his head. “Though, we do have to hit up that place in Texas soon. Outside of Amarillo? Man, I’ve been craving-“
“We’re quitting,” Sam says abruptly. Dean’s eyes snap to him. “Hunting. We’re quitting hunting.”
“Is that the executive decision there, bud?”
“Yes,” Sam says firmly, meeting Dean’s eyes. “I’m not doing this again, Dean. I’m not losing you. We can set up a hotline like Bobby had, hell, we can run a damn hunter’s academy if you want, but I’m not doing it. You’re not doing it.”
Dean studies him for a moment. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Sam asks, shocked. He was expecting pushback.
“I think we earned it, finishing off Chuck. And I always said, this ends bloody, Sam. It’s me or it’s you, or, if we’re lucky, it’s both of us. And I’m not too excited to lose you either, for the record.” Sam smiles at the declaration of affection from its brother. It’s about as sappy as they get outside of death time confessions and Sam’s had enough of those to last a lifetime.
“Good,” he nods, breaking in to a grin at the thought of getting to spend years more on earth with Dean, decades. “Good.”
“So. Where are we?” Dean asks, looking around the room. “From the décor I’m gonna guess Midwest.”
Sam presses his lips together, hiding a smile. “Which state?”
“Iowa?”
“Ooh, half points. Nebraska.”
“Cows or no cows?” Dean asks, furrowing his brow. Sam laughs.
“Half cows? Ashland.”
“Dude, that’s practical Iowa. I deserve three-fourths points, at least.”
Sam puts upon a big sigh. “Fine.”
“Sweet,” Dean smiles, stretching dramatically. “At least we’re close to the bunker.”
“I haven’t been there in months,” Sam smiles sadly. “I just. You know. Couldn’t be there.” Dean watches him for a second before nodding.
“Alright. Well, do we need to stop to get you a French maid’s outfit so you can dust the place? I’m sure it needs it.” Sam rolls his eyes, smacking his brother’s arm.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, going to stand. Miracle immediately crowds to Dean, gazing up at him as he leans down to pet him.
“He always did like me best,” Dean shoots Sam a shit-eating grin.
“He hasn’t seen you in months, dude. Slight advantage,” Sam says, trying to sound put on but barely hiding a smile. “Just let me pack up real quick,” he mumbles, disappearing into the bathroom to shove his items into the duffle as quickly as possible, afraid that if he leaves his brother alone too long, he’ll disappear.
When he emerges from the bathroom, Dean is staring at him.
“What?”
“Dude, is that my bag?” Dean asks, sounding scandalized.
Sam feels his cheeks flush. “Shut up.”
“It is. It’s my bag.”
“You weren’t using it,” Sam snips, trying to avoid saying that having something of his brother’s besides his car and his-
“And that’s my watch!” Dean exclaims, gesturing wildly at Sam’s left wrist. “And my ring!”
“Dean-“
“Alright, that’s sweet and all. Real sweet. Really Sid and Nancy. But. Give it back.”
Sam rolls his eyes, undoing the watch and shoving it at his brother before giving him the ring as well. “There.”
“And the bag?”
“It has my shit in it!”
Dean glares at him. “Fine. But as soon as we get home-“
“As soon as we get home, you can have your precious bag, I promise,” Sam draws out his words, as condescending as possible. God, he's missed this.
“Good, because I was serious about that road trip. Man, those chimichangas-”
“Dean.”
“What?”
“You can have all the chimichangas you want. I promise. All of them,” Sam says fondly. “But can we just go home? I haven’t slept in months.”
Dean’s face softens at that, warm smile playing at his lips. “Yeah, Sammy. Let’s go home.”